


The Dream

by hamish_adler_holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:59:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamish_adler_holmes/pseuds/hamish_adler_holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home covered in blood and John finally tells him how he feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So yes, this is gonna be a multichaptered thing, but its one of my first really long fics so bear with me while I muddle my way through this. The chapters are proabably gonna vary in length, but Ill try to keep it constant and good enough for you all :) So thanks for reading and feel free to leave comments--stay friendly, please.
> 
>  
> 
> UPDATE: Sorry this isnt being updated, guys, school just started up again and its senior year--busy busy busy omfg. So bear with me please c: Im writing the next chapter now. I might include some stuff from season 3, so if you havent seen it beware! Spoilers ;D

John Watson was checking his email and planning a new blog update, when his laptop was slammed closed, nearly crushing his fingers. He glanced up to see what it was Sherlock wanted, and was shocked at what he saw.

Sherlock was standing in front of him, his six foot tall frame looking even taller now that John was sitting. But that wasn’t what shocked John. Sherlock was covered in blood. This had happened before, there had been many cases where Sherlock had come home covered in blood and gore from his latest case, but this time, it was different.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, leaping up. He automatically started checking the detective for the source of the blood, running his hands all over and feeling for bumps and cuts. Sherlock’s eyes were glazed over and were focusing and unfocusing, his pupils huge. As John reached up to feel along Sherlock’s head, the detective collapsed.

John didn’t know what to do. He called for Mrs. Hudson as he struggled with the taller mans limp body. Once he got Sherlock onto the bed, he called Molly on Sherlock’s phone, knowing she would answer more quickly if it were the detectives name flashing across the screen. As he hoped, Molly answered on the second ring, her voice breathy and excited.

“Molly, its John, please come-Sherlock-so much blood-unconscious-" John gasped out as he applied pressure to Sherlock’s head, pushing aside the soft, dark curls.

The time until Molly arrived ticked by so slowly as John watched his best friends breathing hitch and slow down. “Stay with my, Sherlock, stay with me, Molly will be here soon.” He brushed the detectives hair back from his sweaty forehead.

Molly came running in through the door and let out a small scream, but got straight to work taking care of the detective. She started rummaging through the bag she brought, pulling out various medical supplies.

“Oh, God, John, what happened?” she asked, voice shaky.

“I don’t know, he came back like this, he just came in covered in blood and he just-"

John fell silent, looking at the detective he secretly loved, and prayed that Sherlock would wake up so he could explain how he felt. At that moment, Sherlock stirred, his eyes opening.

“John?” he whispered, reaching for the doctor.

“Sherlock, it’s fine, you’re fine, Molly and I are fixing you, it’s okay.”” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and holding it tight with both of his own. He leaned in close, saying “I swear, Sherlock, if you leave me I’ll kill you.”

“John, you’re staying, right?” the detective gasped.

“You know I will, don’t be stupid.”

Sherlock smiled faintly and lay back. Molly was soon finished, and she left quietly, whispering directions to John. She had found the source of the blood, a cut on his head, and told John to keep an eye on him.

John pulled up a chair and sat beside Sherlock, waking him occasionally to make sure he didn’t have any problems. Eventually, Sherlock woke on his own, and the two men started talking.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened, or is this another thing I’m not allowed to know about?” John asked, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the edge of the bed.

“It was a new case. I’m not entirely sure that happened, I was fighting someone and there was this massive blow to my head, and I went to get a cab back here. After that...I can’t remember after that.” John shook his head.

“Look, Sherlock, maybe you should take a break. From the cases, the fighting. You won’t always be able to find a cab to take you back home, who knows what may have happened?” John was getting more and more upset as he went along. “I don’t know what I would do if you died before I got the chance to tell you-"

He stopped and felt his face flush. Sherlock rolled his head to the side, wincing a little. “Tell me what, John?” The doctor shook his head. “John, tell me or I’ll assume it’s something horrible.”

John put his face in his hands. “I would never have told you…” he took a deep breath in. “I never would have told you that I’m in love with you, that I had been in love with you since the first moment I met you and you analyzed me, you and your stupid cheekbones and your coat collar.”

There was a silence, one so long that John was sure he had made a mistake, or that the detective had passed out again. He kept his face in his hands, too ashamed to look up.

Until he heard a faint “And I you, Doctor Watson.” He felt the detectives long fingers prying his hands away from his face. Sherlock put his fingers under John’s chin, forcing eye contact between the two of them.

“John, I love you too, you don’t need to be ashamed. I knew you were amazing as soon as you shot that mad cabbie, the one with the pills, I knew you would always be there and there was never a doubt in my mind that I loved you.”

John was so shocked he couldn’t answer. Sherlock pulled John down against him in the bed, so the doctor was laying beside him on the bloody sheets. 

John let out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding in. He pulled Sherlock against his chest, kissing his cheek and pushing their foreheads together. “I was so afraid I was going to lose you.”

“Oh, but John, you did.”

“I…what? Sherlock—"

John pulled back, confused, to see blood again on the detectives face, his eyes an icy blue from the contrast. 

Suddenly he was on the roof of the hospital, watching again as Sherlock jumped. He was falling with him this time, tangled with the taller man and screaming as the ground approached. He woke with a start as he hit the ground.

John Watson woke up gasping, in a new flat in a bed with his fiancé. Sherlock was gone, dead, and John would never tell him how he felt.


	2. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drunken John visits his friends grave, only to be met by what he thinks is an illusion brought on by drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, chapter two! Here you go, lovelies.

John Watson was making breakfast, tossing back a glass of whiskey to shake off the dream he just had. Whiskey seemed to be the only thing that could numb his constant pain, the pain that haunted him since the day Sherlock Holmes died.

A pair of small, slender arms wrapped around his waist, and a hand grabbed the tumbler out of his hand. "A bit early, don't you think, dear?"

John turned and pulled his fiancée into a kiss.

"I heard you wake up last night. Are you still having the dreams?" Mary asked, pulling back and setting the tumbler down on the counter and leaning against it. 

John nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak. He still hadn't told Mary about his love for his dead friend--how was he supposed to do that? Ever since the day Sherlock was put in the ground, John had been plagued by nightmares that came almost every night. It had been two years, he had a therapist, a blog, his fiancée Mary. But nothing could help. He had talked to Sherlock; well, to Sherlock's gravestone. He had said almost everything he needed to say, but he never said the three words that were always warring in his head, the ones that were always threatening to escape. "I love you." He still held out hope that Sherlock wasn't gone, and that if he ever ran into him he would say it face to face. He always thought he saw his detective friend, either in the reflection of a window or in the middle of the crowd. But he never really checked to see--he didn't know what he would actually do, and he never felt like seeming even more mad than everyone already thought he was.

John turned back to what he was cooking, hoping Mary couldn't see the way his shoulders shook.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John opened the door of his flat to see Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway with a box in his hands. He said it was full of some of Sherlock's old things, and inside was also a video that he had recorded for John on his birthday. After Lestrade left and John watched the video, he went to visit Sherlock. But he had been drinking, and collapsed against the headstone when he got there. He closed his eyes and pictured his friend standing beside him, laughing the way he so rarely did or steepling his hands underneath his chin.

There was a rustle, and John opened his eyes to see a figure standing above him. He sighed. It was Sherlock. "Oh, great, now I bloody dreaming again." he huffed, squinting up at the shape in front of him.

"John?" it spoke.

John shook his head. "A really clear dream." he sighed again. "And where have you been, you bastard?"

Sherlock chuckled at his friend and sat beside him, leaning his head against his grave stone and stretching his long legs out in front of him. "Familiarizing myself with London again. Talking to Mycroft, trying to find a chance to talk with you." He looked down at John. "You're taking this a lot better than I thought you would. I expected lots of...hitting, actually."

John leaned his head against Sherlock's thin shoulders. "You've gotten thinner. Of course. You've gone and lost weight while I've put loads on." He poked Sherlock in the chest. "You're perfect, you arse."

Sherlock had tensed when the doctor leaned against him, but he relaxed and snaked his arm around John. "I'm sorry. I never should have done what I did. But I'm back now." At that, John shook his head. "It's alright. I-" he stopped suddenly and jerked back.

"Sherlock?" He stood up, nearly hitting the detective in the face. "You're back? Really, properly back?"

"Of course I am, I was never actually gone, really. I was just--away, for a while. But I'm back now. Aren't you glad to see me?" he asked, reaching for John.

John stared and took an unsteady step back. He had to be dreaming. This wasn't real. He crouched down, hands on his head, whispering "It's a dream, a dream." and rocking back and forth on his heels. Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and stood him up. He took a deep breath and punched his friend in the jaw.

John got up, dazed, and tackled Sherlock to the ground. He pinned him on his back and started punching him over and over, only half his blows actually making contact with Sherlock's face. The detective wasn't even struggling, which made it more infuriating.

"I was so upset, so upset and broken, and you let me be! You stupid prick, how could you let me go on like that?" Sherlock's arms came up and grabbed John's hands as he rolled over so the doctor was on his back, his hands pinned at his sides.

"John, listen to me. I did it to protect you! I saved your life, you ungrateful little-" he stopped and took a deep breath. "I saved your life, and to do it I had to make people believe I died. I couldn't have you gone from me, and I know now that I should have told you. But then after, I was afraid, afraid to come back in case they were watching, so I watched from a distance, made sure you didn't know. And I didn't tell anyone, only Molly knew, but she had to. I had to make sure you were safe, John, and it meant hurting you but at least you were alive!"

"Sherlock, I suffered! Everyone thought I was mad, they laughed, they called me horrible things and said I was making a fool of myself, to let it go. And they think I did, but I had hoped, I always hoped you would come back. I was always thinking of you, these two years, and you made me look like a fool!" He struggled to get out from underneath Sherlock. "You left me alone! I loved you so much, and you left me, you bloody left me, people always leave me and I had thought you were better than that!" He stopped struggling and broke down into tears.

Sherlock rolled off the doctor and pulled him into a silent embrace. He stroked John's back, his face, shushed him and held him close, not saying anything. The two men sat there for a while until Sherlock spoke.

"You're moustache is bloody ridiculous, you know that? You look old." John let out a strangled laugh and punched Sherlock lightly in the shoulder. The detective really was smaller, almost unhealthily so, and John would make sure to give Sherlock a medical exam afterwards.

"I'm so glad you're back."

"Me too, John. Me too."


	3. Night Remedies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3! Lemme know what you think (: Comments are encouraged, I love reading what you have to say. Keep it civil, thats all I ask.

John Watson was in a cab with the dead man he secretly loved. The dead man, or not so dead man, had faked his death and had recently revealed himself to John as still being alive. They were headed back to John’s new flat, where he would meet Mary and stay for a while until he sorted things out.

“What are you telling Mary?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John had been silent for the whole ride, not knowing what to do. He had told Sherlock how he felt in his drunken state. It was both a blessing and something unnerving that Sherlock had not said anything about it. Had he responded in a negative way, John would be humiliated and crushed. Had he returned feelings, it was too late—John was engaged.

“I don’t know. If you don’t mind explaining...” John answered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

Sherlock nodded. He had heard John’s earlier confession, but hadn’t said anything in response. He had already messed up the friendship the two had by faking his death and running away for two years. He didn’t want to make anything more awkward between him and the doctor than he already had. Sherlock had an answer, but he planned to wait until he and John had talked more.

\--------------------------------------------------------  
The cab pulled up to John’s new address, and there was a hesitation before either he or Sherlock got out. John was the first to leave the car, paying the driver and silently leading Sherlock to the door.

Sherlock followed him into the living room where Mary was watching a film. She didn’t look up from the television, simply lowered the volume and said, “Hello John. Feeling better?”

“Mary, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

She turned to see what it was John was talking about, then leapt up with a hand over her mouth. “John?” she asked, her voice shaky and breathless as she took in the scene in front of her. Beside her fiancé stood his friend, the friend who had died two years previously.

John crossed the room and stood beside his shaky fiancée. “Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes. You remember me telling you about him? Well—Mary!” John stopped as she ran across the room and started hitting Sherlock on the arms with tiny fists. It couldn’t have hurt, and Sherlock stood there and took it.

John ran over and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her away from the silent detective. “You let him suffer!” She shouted, struggling against John. “You left him for two. Bloody. Years!” Mary broke free of John’s restraining hands but stayed where she was, glaring at Sherlock. John leaned over and said something to her, and she stormed off with one last icy glare.

There was a silence.

“John, I-"  
Sherlock, I-"

The men broke off, looking at each other. Then they started to laugh, a laugh fueled by shock and pure happiness at finally being together again. They leaned against one another, gasping for air. Mary, hearing the laughter, came back into the room, looking ashamed of herself. She touched Sherlock gently on the shoulder, as if making sure he was real. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what got into me. I’m Mary. Mary Morstan.” She held a tentative hand out for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock smiled, taking her hand. “Soon to be Mrs. Mary Watson?” he asked, turning her hand over and looking at her ring. John thought he saw a flash of something sad in Sherlock’s eyes, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. The three then sat down as Sherlock explained everything. When he reached the part about the gunmen, the one aiming at John and how only his death could save John’s life, Mary’s eyes filled with tears and she pulled the detective into a hug. She then grabbed John’s hand, and Sherlock continued on, explaining what he had been doing for the last two years.  
\------------------------------------------------  
John lay awake, listening to Mary’s soft breathing beside him. He was working on a new blog entry, but he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to be the one to reveal Sherlock’s secret, but he wanted to say something. He started typing, before a hand slammed his computer shut. He looked up to see Sherlock towering over him. His hair was rumpled and his hands were shaking. John’s mind flashed to the dream he had the night before, and he was almost afraid to look up. When he did, he saw something that shocked him even more than the dream had.

Sherlock’s face was covered in tears.

He stood and gently touched Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock leaned down, his face in the crook of John’s neck as he cried. They were horrible, jerking, hitching sobs. John pulled Sherlock down the hall to the guest room he was staying in and sat beside him on the bed.

“Sherlock, what is it, what happened?”he asked, rubbing the detectives back. Sherlock’s face was back wedged against John’s shoulder, and he was clinging to the doctor as if he were the only thing keeping him from slipping from the bed and onto the floor. Slowly, he got his breath back.

“I’m so sorry.” he whispered, not moving his head from John. “I knew what this would do to you. I looked at your blog, and I felt so terrible knowing you were hurting. I put you through so much and I could have found a way to tell you, but I was so afraid. I watched you and hoped it was enough, but I know it wasn’t. I can see that now, and it hurts me, and I’m sorry I made you so damn miserable. I just didn’t know what to do.”  
John wasn’t sure what it was, the tears or the confession that Sherlock was actually too afraid to do something, but he felt a rush of courage. He pushed the detective down against the pillows and lay next to him. Sherlock curled his legs up against his chest and watched as John pulled the covers up over them. John leaned forward, closing the distance between the two of them and putting his forehead up against Sherlock’s. He put a hand up behind Sherlock’s head, winding his fingers through the dark curls.

“It was hard, Sherlock. I’m not going to pretend these last two years weren’t the worst two of my life, believing my best friend was dead and gone from me. But having you back, it’s like a miracle, I keep expecting to wake up and this will all be some horrible dream, some trick my mind played on me. I’m not upset with you, I promise.”

Sherlock sniffled, wiping tears from his face. He had never looked so vulnerable. He still hadn’t moved from John’s embrace, which the doctor took as a good sign. John started to run his fingers through the curls, and Sherlock’s eyes flipped open. John didn’t move away or stop his hand, not daring to move. Sherlock’s arm wrapped around John’s waist, and his other hand reached up and pushed hair back from the doctor’s forehead. John hardly dared breath, not wanting to ruin the moment and break the spell that seemed to have taken over his friend. Sherlock’s thumb slowly moved across John’s face, brushing over his cheek and then down to his mouth.  
“You shaved,” Sherlock whispered, smiling.

“You hated it, so…” John whispered back.

There was a moment of hesitation, and then Sherlock leaned in and kissed John, a quick peck. He pulled away, looking into John’s eyes for a reaction. John was frozen for a moment longer before he pulled Sherlock’s mouth to his, kissing him back. Sherlock gasped against John’s mouth and deepened the kiss, pulling the doctor’s leg up around his waist and twining his fingers through John’s hair so he could hold him closer. The two men kissed deeper and deeper, pausing only to gasp for air and look into each other’s eyes, before the kissing started again, each kiss deeper and more amazing than the last.

What seemed like hours later, the two pulled apart. The only sound was the uneven breathing as the two men tried to control their breath. “John, stay with me? The nightmares…”

“Of course.” John whispered, kissing Sherlock’s forehead and still playing with his soft curls. 

“I love you.”  
“I love you, too.”

John stayed until Sherlock’s breathing was deep and the hand across his face went limp, and then he disentangled himself and quietly left, closing the door and tiptoeing down the hall to his own bed. As he climbed in, Mary rolled over and blinked up at him.

“Another nightmare?” she asked, touching John’s shoulder and blinking sleep out of her eyes.

John flicked off the lights and settled down under the covers, touching his swollen lips and smiling. “No, I’m fine. Just something we both needed to say.”

And that was the first night in two years that John Watson slept through the night without any bad dreams shocking him awake. He had the first good dream he had in a long time, one where he and the detective were laying side by side in the bed he was now sharing with Mary.


End file.
